


What Mycroft Did?

by QueenLadyAnne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mpreg, Science Experiments, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenLadyAnne/pseuds/QueenLadyAnne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was very simple they were all going to blame Mycroft. That man, that evil man, was the British Government, and this meant he was at fault. Obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at fan fiction, my thanks to my betas 221Btls and Shellybees for their help and encouragement. Hats off to you both. Feel free to comment, I'd love to hear them.

He was only going to be five minutes, he was not going to be late for his meeting. He had a government to run, and people to manipulate, favours to ask. In those five minutes, all hell broke loose.

What happened next was something close to a living hell for the four men, who had the misfortune of be standing in the kitchen of 221 B Baker Street when Sherlock decided to add whatever the hell compound it was to his latest experiment. The flat didn't explode, but John spent the next five hours cleaning with the help of the British Government and a Detective Inspector. Sherlock complained loudly that he was bored and everyone informed him that he was a lazy git. For his part, Sherlock said they were distracting him and sulked, disappearing into his Mind Palace. So much for the government running smoothly, thought Mycroft bitterly as he cleaned in a bespoke suit. 

 

***

 

A few weeks after the incident, John came down with the worst flu he'd experienced in years. The same symptoms happened to the others. It was nothing, they reasoned, because living with Sherlock could give you anything. Mycroft himself didn't relate the sickness to the “incident” until one evening Sherlock brought up the blasted experiment, which according to him was ruined due to Mycroft's arrival.

For a moment Mycroft said nothing, but a small question began to form in his head, but logically, it wasn’t possible.  He was sick with the flu, a bad flu, but the flu.  Sherlock couldn’t mess with biology could he?

“What did you DO brother mine?”  Mycroft waited a moment, mentally counted to 30 before Sherlock answered him.  Maybe John had a point, Sherlock was an overgrown man-child.

“I did nothing Mycroft. I simply added the compound too soon, its effects should rectify themselves in a matter of months.”

“A matter of mon-months? I ask again what did you do?”

“It's nothing to concern yourself with. Piss. Off.”

“I am ill. I do not know why I am ill, the only reason I ask you what you did now, is because something went wrong with your experiment. So, brother mine I ask again, what do you mean?” Mycroft glared at Sherlock hoping that he would get the answer he was looking for.

“Deduce it, and before you do PISS OFF!”

Had Mycroft stayed where he was for ten seconds longer, he would have seen Sherlock race to the bathroom to become re-acquainted with the toilet. A half hour later, Mycroft would meet John, to determine what might be the cause of their discomfort. Fortunately, John was with Greg, about to share a pint.

“Dr. Watson, Detective Inspector, a word before you drink?"

“No.” Neither man looked up nor reacted much to Mycroft's presence. He sighed. “Has Sherlock done anything recently that might lead you both to wonder what he has done to you?

“What has he done now?” Growled Greg.

“Did he make the flat explode this time? So help me I will kill him, I will shoot him!” John jumped to his feet and made for the door, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“No he did not but he is hiding something. I believe it is what is making us ill.” Mycroft glanced their way. “My car, is outside.” Reluctantly both men followed the minor government official to his car, and joined him inside for a ride back to Baker Street to find Sherlock.

Once there, the smell of coffee and cake from Mrs. Hudson's flat sent all three men scrambling up the stairs in an effort to get to the bathroom. The door to the flat was locked.

“Sherlock! Sherlock open the door you mad bastard!” Bang, Bang.

“Sherlock- Sher- the do-or!” Pound, pound.

“I dropped... key-sss”

“Brother! D-oo-r!” Pound, Bang!

With a click the door was unlocked and Sherlock was shoved unceremoniously out of the way. The three men made a dash for the bathroom. None of them made it. Sherlock walked towards them, sniffed and looked at the kitchen table, where another experiment was underway.

“My experiment had best not be ruined.”

“Shut up Sherlock!” John glared at him.

“Brother mine, you will tell us why we are ill. I know you worked it out. So. Tell. Us. Why” Mycroft gripped his umbrella tight.

“We are all pregnant, and I blame Mycroft.” With that Sherlock dropped to the sofa and sulked. No one moved.


	2. Chapter 1: Are We Really Blaming Mycroft?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You might think that Greg and John would blame Sherlock.... but hold on one second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not have come about without the support of my lovely, darling betas Shellysbees and 221Btls, who spent much of their time encouraging me and making sure this would run better. I'm so grateful to them and to you my readers. 
> 
> As a few have asked, I'll let it go to a vote, would you like John/Sherlock and Greg/Mycroft later on?

There was a five minute silence as John, Greg and Mycroft tried to process the Sherlockian pronouncement. They looked down at their flat bellies in disbelief, then at each other with narrowed eyes; they didn't look pregnant. Besides, they didn't have the right bits and they couldn't be pregnant, because men can't just become pregnant. Even Sherlock was that insane to try that. John dragged a chair from the kitchen table and sat down breathing hard. Greg was so pale he looked as though he would pass out.

Sherlock must have been joking. That was it, except Sherlock never joked. He sulked, but he never joked. This might be some sort of game to test their reactions.

Mycroft was the first to find his voice. “Pregnant? You are insane! Pregnant? Sherlock... in case you've gone and _deleted_ it men can NOT physically be, or become, pregnant Preg... Preg... Ah!” Mycroft shuddered to a halt as Sherlock waved a dismissive hand towards him. Then taking a deep breath, he continued “This is not my fault. You put whatever that thing was into your experiment; you are at fault. YOU DID NOT TELL US! Pregnant. It's impossible.” He dropped into the nearest chair, breathing hard.

“Bugger” Mycroft muttered under his breath. He looked over to Greg and John to see if they would join in the conversation sooner or later. John looked as if murdering some person (Sherlock) was a strong possibility and Greg was glaring at Sherlock. Mycroft waited and then counted in his head: Three. Two. One.

“Sherlock!” yelled John, lunging to his feet. “How did you…? How could you…? I'd punch you again except that I would hurt your child. Child? Child?? Fucking hell, Sherlock! Where's my gun?” John ran out of the room, presumably looking for the Sig. Although it didn't seem he was running for his room. At any rate, Mycroft made a mental note to take it and hide that gun at his home. 

“You are mad.” Howled Greg “You are off every case for the duration of this, whatever the hell you did to us. There's been a mistake. This is impossible; it can't happen… I'm not a woman. You bastard! I need a drink. Wait, I can't have a drink. Child? Sherlock... you wanker.” Greg glared at the sulking man on the sofa. Sherlock didn't move. 

“Gavin, you will need me in a matter of minutes, the Yard can't do anything without me. Besides, you will feel better in a few months, I can't see a problem with anything really except that you are still upset. Blame Mycroft, it's far easier.” Sherlock lifted his head, and glanced over to his brother. “I can prove that we are all with child. It is rather easy. John? John! John come here.”

“I'm not coming near you.” John's voice came from the bathroom. Mycroft felt the urge to join him soon, but he had the flu, he was not pregnant.

“It's GREG. G-R-E-G. Get it right. Not going near you either. Make Mycroft do it, whatever it is. Mycroft should be the test subject,” Greg said. He looked over to Mycroft who glared back at him. Sherlock watched the two glare at each other, then smirked and stood up.

“I'll get the equipment.” With that, he (who?) waltzed into his room and began banging around, presumably looking for something he had stolen/borrowed from Bart's. After a few minutes, Mycroft needed to use the facilities, after John returned from using them. Sherlock appeared with what looked to be an ultrasound machine. The other three men stared at the machine in something akin to horror.

“Where did you... how did you? Never mind.” John looked at the machine. Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

“Brother mine, please, do not take me for a fool. This is rigged in some manner. I have a job which needs taking care of.” Mycroft made for the door. It was the flu. Only the flu.

Sherlock looked at him, and then at the others; he seemed to be deciding something. Fingers steepled under his chin, he sat down on the chair. Then he coughed, turned green and ran from the room. Mycroft could hear sounds coming from the bathroom. Served him right too. From the looks of things, the other two felt the same.

Two minutes later, Sherlock returned a bit paler than before. He looked at Mycroft with narrowed eyes. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Fine.” Mycroft walked over to the sofa and lay down.

“You will need to take off the suit if we will do this. Or is the diet not going well?”

“Shut up Sherlock!” John yelled He walked to the ultrasound machine, flipped the switch on, and pushed it over to Mycroft, grumbling under his breath. Mycroft thought he distinctly heard the words “lazy git” and “never listens” in the midst of the grumbling. “Okay I'd like to prove Sherlock wrong for once, so Mycroft, lift your shirt.” 

Mycroft froze. It was now or never. It had to be the flu, nothing could be there. After all he couldn't have a child, he was a man. And men don't have children, at least not without some form of help. Then again this was Sherlock and he was known to make life difficult for most people. Slowly he began to take off his jacket and vest and unbutton the lower part of his shirt, pulling out of the way as he did. He stared at his belly. It looked flat. With a sigh he lay down.

John moved his chair over to the sofa and began to tell him that he would be using some gel and this would take a couple of minutes. With the explanations finished, John poured some gel on his belly. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak; the gel was warm. John grinned and said he warmed it up so it would be easier for him. Mycroft nodded his thanks.

“Now, gentlemen and mad genius, please let's look,” John said, motioning Greg and Sherlock over to the monitor. All four men looked intently at the screen and John moved the wand around, grinning. “Okay, and it looks as if everything is normal in a non-pregnant male. Did you hear me Sherlock?! There is your bladder Mycroft... umm.” The grin faded.

“Is that just a blob with a flashing part to it?” Greg asked in a hopeful tone. He looked pale. Mycroft stared hard. That was not a blob.

“No. That git of a “consulting detective” is right about Mycroft at least. That is a baby. I would say....” John paused to look closer at the image on the screen. “About twelve weeks along.” Mycroft gasped. Three months. Three months? A baby- not the flu. He was going to murder his brother. He could do it too; no one would know. However, Mommy would hurt him, or pour gravy on his laptop. There must be something he could do. John was speaking again, and he turned his head towards him. To his surprise, the Detective Inspector was already shirtless.

“Unlike your royal highness, we Lestrades don't have a worry about being half naked.” Greg grinned at him and motioned him to get off the sofa. Mycroft got up. After a moment Greg lay down and took a deep breath. Mycroft sympathized if Greg was pregnant this was not the best way to find out.

“Okay, Greg, same thing.” John repeated the procedure and after a moment announced Greg would be a “Mommy” soon. The two men laughed mirthlessly. “I'll do myself and then I'll check Sherlock. If we are all twelve weeks along then it was the experiment. I vote we blame Sherlock.”

Sherlock for his part had vanished at some point during the conversation and ultrasounds. The door to his bedroom was shut. 

“Well, oh bloody hell, okay, I umm, can confirm thatweareallpregnantwithonebabyeach.” John said this very fast as if he hoped that it would all go away. “Now Sherlock, lay down and let's check you out. Sherlock? Sherlock?!” John looked around and pointed to the bedroom door. He motioned for the other two to follow.

They got to the door only to find it locked.

“Sherlock, I am giving you to the count of three to come out here and be checked over. You will have your door broken in three, two one!” John kicked at the door. Greg and Mycroft followed suit. After two minutes of kicking and no Sherlock, the door opened.

There under the covers was Sherlock. The three men pounced on him. In thirty seconds, Sherlock was being carried battering ram style to the sofa, clinging to a pillow, looking for all the world as if he would be in an epic sulk for the rest of his life. 

“Let's have a look,” John said, pouring a liberal amount of gel on Sherlock's belly. After two minutes John grinned. “And, there are your babies. Yes, you are having twins. Serves you right, you bastard. Oh, and I blame you for this mess we are all in.” By this time Sherlock had rolled over and was sulking to the back of the sofa. Greg had begun to giggle, and John followed after a few seconds. Mycroft narrowed his eyes and began to laugh as well.

Sherlock rolled back over and looked at the men. “I believe it's Mycroft's fault. I was working on an experiment to prove an alibis. If I had added the chemical at the correct time, which would have proved my theory and a suspect's guilt, none of us would be having this conversation. MYCROFT! It was you who did this. Not I.”

Mycroft took a deep breath through his nose and then looked at his brother. “Sherlock, am I really at fault? I would never have made that sort of mistake. I am too smart for that.”

“No Mycroft, you would have. So, now that you know you are pregnant-- piss off.” Sherlock pointed to the door for good measure. 

“No Sherlock, we have to talk, we have to decide what to do. No one else will believe us and no one else will help without some very delicate negotiations. It won't do for the press to find out. You know as well as I do how they will twist this and destroy us.” Mycroft sat down in Sherlock's chair and thought for a moment.

Then he looked at Greg and John. Both men would have their own troubles with this; it was unfair for them in many ways. Both men would lose all sorts of freedoms and, should the press get wind of the situation his brother created, the reporters would hurt them more than they could Mycroft or Sherlock. Caring was not an advantage, however, the two men needed help. Mycroft could use some favours from John and Greg later on, a coffee or a dinner, or some information about potential terrorists. With that he stood up and walked towards the door. He paused and turned around to look at the other three men.

“Detective Inspector, Doctor Watson, brother mine. I have a plan which just might work. We will need to carry these fetuses to term and then we can make our move.” Mycroft smiled his most winning smile. No one smiled back.

Finally, John spoke for the rest of the men in the room. “I take it back, Sherlock is right-- it is your fault.” Greg nodded his agreement.

**6 months later**

Mycroft sat at his desk looking like the minor government official he unofficially was. Suddenly he exhaled quickly and poked his hand below his custom made desk. He exhaled again, this time with a grunt. He pushed the chair back, revealing his nearly nine months pregnant belly. The child was moving again; really, it never stopped. He couldn't breathe. He could barely move. The only positive thing was that Sherlock was bigger, and he could tease him without mercy. Cake indeed. 

At this point, he was pleased that all of them were close to having the children. After this, his plan would go along smoothly. Each man could decide where to place the child, or if they chose, they could keep it. It had cost the government a bit of money, (really a lot of money), but the taxpayers hadn't noticed a thing. As Sherlock would say, they had boring little brains. Mycroft flinched again. According to John the child was rather large and had found that it was highly amusing to kick, poke or batter his ribs. Perhaps it would be best to go for a walk. Maybe to the bathroom since the moment he stood the child would begin its dance on his bladder.

He most certainly did not envy pregnant women. He was also certain that his new weight was causing more than a few glances by several staff members his way. However, the Ice Man was feared for more than his knowledge of people, but of methods of torture he could use on them. Kick, punch... and apparently so did this child. It was annoying him. It probably was Sherlock all over again, except this time in his belly. 

“Bugger it all, that man!” Mycroft yelled when the baby soundly kicked his spleen, wishing Sherlock was suffering far worse than he was at the moment. Which brought to mind the fact that in less than a week this would all end. It was all planned out in meticulous detail and Mycroft knew the babies would be on schedule and born at the proper time. Peaceful, relaxed, back to being able to see his feet... the finer things in life. He glanced at the clock; he needed to leave for a very important meeting at Baker Street. They would probably blame him for being late. That seemed the norm ever since the major conversation that they had when they found out that they were pregnant. That and he hated the politics of it all.

At least it was almost over. He looked out the window and noticed a few snowflakes were starting to fall. He would call the car to come to the closest door and he wouldn't even have to open his umbrella at all. With that, he headed out the door towards Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 2: Do You Want to Go Back in Time?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and the guys get a rude awakening, just as Mycroft remembers the "incident" six months before...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thanks everyone who has commented or given kudos enough, BIG HUGS all around! You make me smile when you come and comment. I promise I will finish this. So no worries, if you don't see an update soon then you can nag me, I give you permission.
> 
> As for my betas, well they are fantastic and awesome, and I really couldn't have done this without them. So thank you so much Shellysbees, and 221Btls for all your lovely help.

 Mycroft seriously wanted a cigarette. But until the child was born he couldn't do that, even when it was what he wanted, and he still wasn't used to that idea. Besides, he had to follow what he promised the others he would do so that they would safely have the babies. He walked down the steps to his waiting car, and settled himself in as best he could. There was a minor twinge in his back that stayed for a few seconds and left. It had gone on all morning. Now what was he thinking of when he suggested this course of action? Must have been the shock of it all, he needed to put in a memo to Anthea that he would never, ever, become pregnant again.

He closed his eyes and thought back to the “Great Baker Street Baby Debate” that happened six months earlier. No matter what the other men might say he was not at fault.

***

“Detective Inspector, Doctor Watson, brother mine. I have a plan which just might work. We will need to carry these fetuses to term and then we can make our move.” Mycroft flashed his most winning smile.

No one smiled back.

Finally, John spoke “I take it back, Sherlock is right-- it is your fault.” Greg nodded his agreement.

Mycroft stared at them in disbelief. It was the most logical idea that they could all come up with. He had thought of it, therefore it was the best idea. He was the smart one here. How else would they get themselves out of this mess?

“Mycroft!” Greg yelled.

“Yes. Apologies, were you saying something?” Mycroft sniffed at them. He was not about to admit that John's comment, that he was at fault, had hurt, even the slightest. It was Sherlock who’d put together this experiment. Not him. Besides, he’d helped to clean up afterwards, so there was the proof. He wasn't at fault.

“Yes, your Lordship, oh British Government, I was,” snarled Greg. “Since we've established the fact that due to your brother's incompetence we are... oh god I can't even say it... and then you suggest we have the... maybe you might think about ASKING what John and I want, or think! You want to have the baby, go right the hell on ahead, and I'd pay money that I don't have to see it happen too. As for Sherlock, right now he deserves this, with as much pain as possible. Do either of you know how we can have...” Greg stopped when John raised his hand.

“Alright Mycroft, first we are pregnant, and now, how would we go about having these babies. I know you like to think you're the British Government and all, but how does a man go and have a baby without medical help?” John stared at him and then looked to the ceiling as if to ask for divine help. With none forthcoming he continued “See Mycroft, a baby has to come out some how, either the 'natural way' which can't be done in this case...”

“John,” Sherlock interjected. “According to my notes on this experiment, it is entirely possible that a man could have a baby the 'natural way', if one knew exactly where the baby was implanted. Think of yourself as a small hippocampus, a seahorse if you will. The males have the babies, and not the females. I was trying to see if this method could be used on a male human to traffic drugs. Oh never mind about that it's not important anyways, I solved the case, it was a 2. Since it looks as if they are implanted near our bladders, logically they could exit through the pe-”

“STOP!!” The other three men screamed, cutting him off. Hands dove to groin areas, and faces paled. Sherlock glanced at them smirking.

“Oh piss off, the lot of you! If you are going to be such babies about this-- it's nothing. You only have one-- I have two. Think about how much more difficult this will be for me. Pushing a baby out of my...” Sherlock looked at them and attempted to look sad, while pointed at his groin. It didn't work.

“SHUT UP SHERLOCK!” John howled. He didn't look remotely like a doctor, or a soldier, just a very scared man. His hands were still protecting his groin.

This is a bit not good thought Mycroft. The men were scared, and it was no thanks to his idiot brother. Which meant, once again, he needed to take control of the situation. First, however; he would sit down and cross his legs. There now. Deep breaths, in and out. Complete control. What did that lunatic call him... yes, the Ice Man.

“Before I was so rudely interrupted, my suggestion was to carry these fetuses to term. There is a valid reason for this: we have very little options at this moment. If we go to a clinic, no matter how private, _someone_ will find out, and not someone we want, which in turn means the press will find out which means that we lose everything. If we carry the fetuses to term, and have them delivered here, with help, then we can decide what to do with them. We could say that they were adopted should the choice be to keep them, or have them adopted out. This is each man's choice.”

“That is all well and good Mycroft, but you forgot one thing.” John looked at him. “Biologically, yes I suppose men can have babies, but there is a large element of danger to this, we could die from bearing these children. Not to mention if “someone” finds out, as you put it, our normal lives would be out the window. However, men can not, ever, not ever, deliver babies the 'natural way.' It's about as possible as a man becoming pregnant.” John stopped and paled. He put his head in his hands and made sounds that Mycroft had hoped he would never hear from the doctor-- John was sobbing. “Sherlock, you bastard... I can't believe you!” he howled, and continued to cry.

Sherlock’s voice popped into Mycroft's head, ‘As John would say, this is a bit not good.’ This left Greg. If he could convince Greg... John wouldn't be too hard. He was already emotionally compromised, and would follow along. He had to play his cards just right.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade... Greg,” Mycroft began carefully. “Now for the good of Doctor Watson, you and I must make a choice, for all of us. What we decide will be challenging, and only the best will be able to endure it. We are pregnant. It's not the flu, and this must to be dealt with now. I can allow us to choose, but I will also make the choice for us if need be. I am not above making you do things. I can, and I will. So. Now. Choose.”

Mycroft waited. He walked to the door, and took his umbrella in hand. Then he walked back to the three men currently sulking or sitting in the living room. He mentally counted to 30, and then observed the emotions running through the Detective Inspector's face. This would be easy.

“Mycroft. I can't make the choice for John, or for Sherlock for that matter. It should be theirs.” Began Greg. “My choice is to have this child, in whatever way it is safely possible. I have this as a responsibility, for me, it's not really a choice. I don't know if I'll keep this baby... what will happen or how, but it is my choice.”

The room was silent. Finally John spoke. “I still don't understand the how of all this, but my choice is clear. I've seen too much death, many of which came from my own hands, so I can't in good conscience do anything but try to take this to term, if this is possible. I hate to say that Mycroft is right, but I for one understand that this is the only thing I can do for my clone.”

“Clone John?” Sherlock asked from his spot on the sofa. “No this seems to not be a clone. It seems that during the course of my rather failed experiment, I believe that there was DNA exchanged. However, I am uncertain as to whom the father, or mother, may be. What I am certain of is that thus far, the fetuses we carry have done no harm to the transports. It seems they are being carried in pouches around our bladders, and we should be able to have them in two months or so.”

“Sherlock what aren't you telling us?” Mycroft yelped. Six months from now, this could be managed, but two? Why did Sherlock do this to him? It was all his brother's fault.

“Babies are born after nine months Sherlock.” John said pressing his fingers to his nose. “You deleted that didn't you?” Greg stared at them.

“It's not important! Rather boring actually. Except for now. There's always something.” Sherlock grumbled.

“Well, then in six months, I, Dr. Watson, and Detective Inspector Lestrade will produce... someway... children. What about you- Sherlock Holmes what is your choice?” Mycroft looked at his brother, and looked at his watch.

“Since it seems I can't do anything about this... at least not without dealing with John's and Graham's sentiments, I'll have the fetuses. Now, PISS OFF THE LOT OF YOU!” with that Sherlock placed his fingers under his chin and disappeared into his Mind Palace.

“It's GREG!” Yelled the three other men. Sherlock ignored them.

After an hour of planning how to have John and Greg hid away for the last three months without being noticed, Mycroft left Baker Street. He didn't want to admit it, but he did feel just a bit happy that he was going to have a child. The government would be safe long after he was gone, provided the child inherited his brains. Speaking of which, who was the other donor, or donors? With Sherlock in his “Mind Palace” he would have to wait to ask him.

\- - -

Another twinge brought Mycroft back to the present. His back hurt more this time, and the front his belly as well. No matter, he thought, the babies had less than a week to go before his appointed doctor would deliver them, what could possibly go wrong?

The car finally stopped in front of Baker Street, and Mycroft inched himself out of the car. Pulling himself up he stopped to breathe a bit as the baby seemed to move again, this time lower near his hips. He also needed to open his umbrella, it was snowing hard, before waving the driver off, as he knew this would be a while in the flat. One more week. Slowly he dragged himself up the stairs. He could hear annoyed voices in the flat, and he hoped that his brother hadn't done anything to annoy the other two... wait, who was he kidding, of course Sherlock had done something.

Mycroft continued he slow journey up the stairs. Once up there he huffed a bit and opened the door. Glancing around he could barely see anything out the window, it was snowing even harder. He wondered how long it took him to get up the stairs. Only three minutes according to his clock. These days that was somewhat of a record since the narrow stairs didn't allow for room to move.

Mycroft looked around to find John waddling towards his chair, cuppa in hand. Tea, it seemed, always relaxed the Doctor. However, he also noticed that John was placing a hand on his belly and rubbing it ever so often. Mycroft knew John rarely did this, and was about to ask him when Greg Lestrade also waddled into the room.

“Well aren't we a bit like oversized ducks.” John commented.

“No, John, ducks look better than we do!” Greg laughed before “OW! That was my rib again! Oh my back is killing me. Mycroft... _still your fault_.” he continued by way of greeting.

“We are not ducks. Gentlemen, we are lions for enduring this.” Mycroft responded. “John, Greg how are you? _Again, not my fault!_ ” he shook the umbrella and placed it by the door. “It is snowing badly. Perhaps we should keep this meeting short. Where is Sherlock?”

“Mycroft, we're big fat lions. In Sherlock's case, one that sleeps more than a lion. Sherlock is in his room sulking, I wouldn't let him experiment on his transport's ability to deal with back pain.” John sighed. “Just want you to know _it's still your fault_. OW! Every five bloody minutes my back bothers me. I think the baby hit a nerve or something.”

Mycroft stared for a moment. It couldn't be. No, it can't possibly not now. He wandered as fast as he could to the window. He blinked and sniffed.

“Greg... John... does my brother have back pains as well?” Mycroft asked hoping the answer was no. Because he really did not want to contemplate a positive answer.

“Yes I do Mycroft. I have back pains, and you had best be on your way soon. I am not in a good mood. Every two minutes.  I can't... think.” Sherlock, it seemed, was able to move from his bed. He looked positively huge, and Mycroft had to resist the urge to ask him when he would begin to diet.

“Oh.” Was all Mycroft could say.

Then he looked out on the lovely snow falling down on London. There was no traffic, there wasn't a single person out... this was a whiteout. He mentally tried to figure out when the last time it had snowed this badly. He couldn't.

“OH BUGGERING HELL!” Mycroft yelled. He leaned over to turn on the TV. There was a blizzard warning. The three other men were looking at him with strange looks on their faces. Mycroft closed his eyes, and then tried to smile.

“We can't leave the flat. This is a bad thing.” Mycroft whispered.

“Please Mycroft why is it a bad thing? I mean it's not like we can go anywhere. Remember confined to flat until baby?” Greg grumbled at him.

“Nothing like that dear Gregory, but let me put it to you this way. Back pains every four or five minutes?” Mycroft asked. He wait until the rest nodded. “Doctor Watson how long does it take usually for a women to give birth shall we say the 'natural way?'” He asked John.

“Umm, usually anywhere between 2-48 hours depending on a variety of factors, timing of contractions, number of children... and you think we're in labour don't you?” John stared at him. “Do you even know what that means if we can't get out... no one can get in. Which means... oh hell!” John tried to hoist himself from the chair, and found he couldn't.

Sherlock began a rather duck like pace around the room. It seemed as though he was trying to get into his Mind Palace, but panic wasn't helping.

“Mycroft... are you having back pains? If so how far apart are they? And Greg?” John asked as he watched Sherlock pace and stop every 30 seconds or so. “Because mine are about two minutes apart... and Sherlock's much sooner...”

“Mine are about minute or so as well John.” Greg supplied. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

“Doctor Watson... mine are about 7 minutes or so. Why do you ask?” Mycroft asked John.

“Because Mycroft, you get to play doctor.” John said grimly.

Mycroft stared at the three others who were now going to have babies, and he didn't know a single thing about birthing children. Where were the files on what to do.... he should email Anthea. He should get some water. He should get them to the beds in the flat. He should call Mrs. Hudson-- except she was away this weekend. He should go to a corner and cry.

“Oh bugger.” Was what he said instead.


	4. Chapter 3: It's Not My Fault Brother Mine!- PISS OFF Then!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has his babies, with the help of one very unwilling Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thanks goes out to my wonderful betas. I am sure this chapter wouldn't have come out as nice without you! Hugs!
> 
> This chapter focuses on Mycroft and Sherlock. No, I didn't forget John or Greg, but I am making sure to continue this-- with them being the focus.
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos I am so grateful, and happy when I get them. I really wasn't expecting this to grow as much as it did. So, my thanks to you all my lovely readers.

Mycroft hated the look Sherlock was giving him, the one of pain and horror. He honestly wished he was anywhere else but Baker St. He took out his mobile. No reception. What- wait? The middle of the largest city in England and _no reception?_ He couldn't email Anthea, and this meant he was going to have to do something about the soon to be born babies, but perhaps... Sherlock could have hours before he had the children. Yes, so he would wait another hour and check his mobile, and someone else would be there, anyone else but him.

 

“MYCROFT!”

 

“Yes? Is there anything you need Sherlock?” Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who was currently being pushed and pulled to the sofa by John and Greg. “Perhaps some help?”

 

“Yes Mycroft, thank- ugh- Myc- I could certainly use your help in getting these things out of me! _Oh loving mother f-_ ” Sherlock practically screamed at the last contraction. After taking a few deep breaths, he commented “Your fault.”

 

“My fau- you, you, my fault?! _It's not my fault brother mine!_ ” Mycroft hissed back. “The least you can do is say my name properly! It's _Mycroft_. And there is no reception for our phones; stop being a sulking child about all this. You are a grown man.”

 

“You're complaining- _oh god!_ \- about how I say- _**I hate everyone!**_ \- your name?! At this time? PISS OFF!” Sherlock shouted from the sofa. “STILL Your fault!”

 

Mycroft took a deep breath in through his nose, and huffed out through his mouth. He slowly took in the situation. Greg was sitting in Sherlock's seat, breathing heavily, and John was trying to maintain some level of calm. Mycroft peered at John and counted 40 seconds before John began to pant.  _Lord almighty_ , he thought it was going to be bad; he knew nothing about practical birth methods. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He did, but it was all in theory. There was no legwork needed during a video session on first aid. He had forgotten why he had been there, but now he attempted to remember some pertinent information. One, keep the woman relaxed and focused. Two, try to call for help.

 

“Sherlock I need you to relax and focus. Take slow and deep breaths with me. Once through your nose, and then out your mouth.” Mycroft began. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” now, that was a big contraction he just had.

 

For his part, Sherlock glared at his brother and huffed. Then he began to swear and howl enough that the other three looked on in shock. John was about to say something, when...

 

Sherlock seemed to have wet himself. An audible whine escaped his lips and he began to sniff. Mycroft hoped his brother would not begin to cry. Now  _that_  he could not deal with. Crying consulting detectives were more than he could deal with right now.

 

“Okay, Sherlock, your water broke” John's voice had assumed the Doctor Watson tone “so I think that it's time to check how far along into labour you are.  _Oh god, this is a bit not good_. Mycroft, I can't check him, you do that. Your fault Mycroft-  _oh sweet mother of mercy!_  ” John half lay back on his chair with his belly looking a lot like a mountain and nearly hiding his face.

 

“Okay gents” began Greg. “Let's assume Sherlock will have the babies in the next hour, by that time service should be up- haa! Oh!- and we can get one of Myc's minions to come help us deal with the rest of them.” Greg glanced Mycroft's way and grinned.

 

“It is MYCROFT! Get it right for once, Gregory- and I don't have minions! And Dr. Watson, it's NOT MY FAULT!” Myrcoft was in no mood for humour. Of course, he did have to deal with the delicate matter of a sulking brother who had ludicrously attempted to curl up like a hedgehog,  _no, that wasn't quite right,_ _the human body can't do that while in labour with twins,_ on the sofa. He looked at John who seemed to be deep in thought. Or had passed out due to not having the Holmes' high tolerance for pain.  _Oh, dear god could this pain not go away? And, why was t_ _hat beast pressing against his bones so? He was not going to cry._

  
“Mycroft, you will need to check your brother, see how close he is to having the babies.” John repeated. “I can't do it; my own contractions are too close and I don't know how long it might take. It's all in theory, and your doctor didn't bother to explain what might happen if labour was early. Or what to do in the 'unlikely' event we would be stuck in a snowstorm with no way out, and no way for anyone to get here.”

 

“Bugger!” Mycroft yelped. “Fine, I’ll do it.” He peaked over Sherlock's shoulders from behind his head at the top of the sofa “Well John, it looks like Sherlock’s close to having his babies. Yes, well then, I say it's time to push soon. Yes. Quite.” Mycroft looked over his brother's shoulder once more, and took a step back towards the windows. It was close enough.

 

“Mycroft, you have to check. This means that you will need to go towards Sherlock's legs. You can't check from there.” John said to Mycroft and yelled at Sherlock “DO NOT ATTEMPT TO KICK MYCROFT YOU GIT!” Before the expected kick occurred. Sherlock was beginning to breathe heavier and it seemed the babies were not waiting.

 

Mycroft moved around towards Sherlock's legs with every sign of reluctance. He would need to check how far along his brother was- and he would need to... take off his brother's pants. He sighed and closed his eyes, and began to pull them down, wishing that he could be anywhere but there. Even in the middle of the Gobi desert, Antarctica perhaps. Vaguely he heard someone shouting at him to open his eyes and do a visual check. He opened one eye and looked. Oh, well that seemed to be a head. Oh hell, that meant only one thing.

 

“Sherlock you need to push. I need towels, now!” Mycroft commanded. John tossed him a jumper instead. Mycroft sighed and then focused on his brother.

 

“Sherlock, push.” Mycroft told him.

 

“I- I- I can't.”

 

“Sherlock, you can. You're almost there. Please push.” Mycroft repeated.

 

Sherlock pushed. Then, the head came out and Sherlock stopped for a moment. Mycroft looked at his brother and wished for the intense look of pain to disappear from his face. Sherlock pushed again. Mycroft watched in amazement at a tiny child being born.

 

“I think everything is okay, but I can't be sure. Push again Sherlock if it feels like you should.” Mycroft whispered. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him, but he followed his instructions. After another 5 minutes, Mycroft was holding his new howling nephew. He heard Sherlock cry out again and it dawned on him that he would have to put the boy somewhere as it looked as if his sibling would join him soon.

 

Mycroft looked around the living room, found a blanket, and thought if he dumped out the contents of one of the desk drawers it would be a safe place to put a newborn. In five minutes the baby was placed in the make-do cradle, between his own contractions and his brother's distracting huffing the process took longer. Mycroft went back to the post behind his brother's legs.

 

“It looks as if the next baby will be here quickly. Do you feel an urge to push?” Mycroft asked.

 

“YES!”

 

“Then push.” Mycroft used his most commanding tone, and Sherlock bent his body almost double in an effort to get this child out. Nothing happened. Again he pushed. In the background he could hear the sounds of the other two men panting; he ignored them. _Where was that baby,_ _why wasn't it here_ _?_ He wondered.

  
After nearly 30 minutes of fruitless pushing, Sherlock looked exhausted. He looked around and moaned. Mycroft realized with a sinking heart that Sherlock had given up. He had not strength left to push. In the background the fussing of a hungry baby could be heard. Mycroft glanced around. Time was running out for the other two men and it seemed unless there was a miracle; he would be the person to deliver the babies.

 

“Push Sherlock. Push. Just a few more times.” Mycroft told him.

 

“Piss off. I can't. Just piss off Myc” Sherlock whined.

 

“It's Mycroft. And yes, you can. Just a few more.”

 

With a great sigh, Sherlock did as he was asked. The head appeared. After a few more pushes the rest of the body came out into Mycroft's waiting hands. Mycroft smiled. Another howling kicking boy. Once again, he looked around for something to wrap the baby in. His coat would have to do.

 

He gently wrapped the second boy in the coat comfortably and looked for another place to put him as he didn't want to go looking for the plastic bassinets upstairs. Another desk drawer would work. He looked at his brother, who seemed to have either closed his eyes or disappeared into his Mind Palace. He didn't _seem_ to care about the two crying babies he had just produced. Mycroft sighed.

 

“Would you like to hold either of your sons?” He asked his brother.  Maybe Sherlock needed some time to get himself used to the idea of children.

 

“No.” The reply from Sherlock was to the point.

 

Mycroft guessed that as far as Sherlock was concerned, his duty was done-- the babies were born healthy. For a second Mycroft felt pity towards his two nephews, but he understood Sherlock's willingness to care for them was limited- he was as much emotionally a child as they were.  The babies were, wonderful, and perfect, at least in his mind. The look on Sherlock's face told him care and love for these boys needed to be found elsewhere. There was not going to be “one more miracle.” They needed a new home. They also needed to be fed.

  
'Sherlock, would you feed the babies?” Mycroft asked.

  
“No.” Sherlock moved his head towards the back of the sofa.

  
Mycroft sighed and realized he would have to feed them soon. Were there bottles in the kitchen? He placed his nephews side by side in an effort to allow them to bond with each other, and then turned around to look at the other men in the room.

  
Greg was nearly grey and John was beginning to sweat. It would be soon. The next baby would be born soon. He pulled out his mobile from his trouser pocket and checked. Still no reception and still white outside. The lights were beginning to flicker, and then Greg let out a moan.

  
“Oh Hell. Oh he-ll!” Greg moaned again.

  
Dear Lord not again. Mycroft begged. No such luck. He should have stayed at the office; it would have been better for him to have done that. He didn't need to deal with this. However, now he did have some practical experience with childbirth (two births to be exact). As long as Gregory would have a nice slow labour, he should be safe from having to do anything which could cause problems, such as becoming an unwilling baby deliverer.

  
“Gregory, how far apart are your contractions?” Mycroft asked.

  
“Less than a minutes, maybe... why?” Greg huffed.

  
“Well then. I believe you will have this baby soon. Do you think you might be considerate enough to let me feed my nephews before you need my help?” Mycroft asked blandly.

  
“Piss Off.” came the reply as Greg's water broke.

 


	5. Chapter 4: If You Love Me Stop Saying It's My Fault!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of love might work right? Mycroft breaks down and begs one man he never thought he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, because you asked for it, I'm going to go out on a limb here, and… adding Mystrade. Please be kind because I didn't think I would so hugs to you all. That and I've never done this sort of thing before, as slash isn't normally what I write. Much thanks goes out to my two wonderful betas as always. So hugs to shellysbees and 221Btls who are wonderful writers and whom I insist that you go and read. I am a better writer because of them, so hugs!

“Are you certain Gregory? _Positively certain_ that you can not stop your labour right now?” Mycroft asked in a hopeful tone. A pillow was thrown at his face in response. _I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then_ , he thought.

 

Greg had closed his eyes and was trying to take slow, deep breaths. Mycroft didn't think it would work for long. _Blasted babies and their timing, they really should think about others_. Gregory did look like he was in pain, and Mycroft wished he could make it end. Although Gregory looked the epitome of handsome all sweaty and... no. His poor Gregory in so much pain, how could he possibly help him?  _Wait, when did that happen?!_  He was the ICEMAN and he didn’t do sentiment.

_Admittedly, The Detective Inspector was quite handsome, with his lovely gray hair.  He was strong and determined, and Mycroft knew he was a man he could trust.  Maybe in time, he could grow to love him, no he was in love with him, and dinner seemed nice.   When did this happen?  It must have been recently- except, once he offered Greg protection, it was his way of showing he loved him- more than either John or Sherlock.  He really should have known this would--_

 

“Myc! Focus! Here on me, in labour, having a baby anything ring a bell? It's your fault I'm in this mess!” Greg howled at him. “Oh God! It. Is. Your. Fault!”

 

“I know you’re in labour Gregory! And it is Mycroft do try to- Hmm- ow- oh my. But you must try to relax. It will take your mind off the pain of this labour, please my love, you must endure this for a moment. I promise, but my wonderful Gregory, please if you love me, stop saying it's my fault!” Mycroft pleaded to him. The room went silent and Mycroft closed his eyes.

 

 _Oh, damn. Oh, shoot. That didn't come out right at al_ l. Mycroft opened his eyes looked around, Sherlock deduced his feelings with narrowed eyes. John stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. Greg had paled more in the last few seconds. Nobody said a word, and Mycroft wished he could just crawl into the nearest large cave he could squash his body into.

 

“Love?” Greg whispered.

 

“Must be the labour talking. I have heard that most people say things that they shouldn't.” Mycroft huffed.

 

“You said you loved Greg!” John shouted in confusion and glee “You don't love any one, I'd say it's labour talking but...”

 

“No John, he does.” Sherlock grinned. “Oh ho! Mycroft... won't Mummy be pleased! When shall we expect the happy announcement?”

 

“SHUT UP SHERLOCK!” Greg and Mycroft yelled simultaneously. That startled the newborns and they began to howl. Sherlock shut up and retreated back to his Mind Palace. John glared at Sherlock and pushed himself off of his chair. Making his way towards the babies, he picked one of them up and went to get a bottle-- or two.

 

“Gregory, I need to check you. I have to remove some of your articles of clothing. I- I think it will be alright, you look wonderful, I- I mean. Can you remove your trousers and pants?” Mycroft looked at Greg, already feeling his cheeks burn. Why now, why here of all times does he need to express sentiment?

 

“I'm going to do that, but I need your help Myc,” Greg huffed. His breathing quickened as another strong contraction hit him. Mycroft mentally counted out the time, the most recent one was long, which meant that the baby should come soon. Right now his mind was betraying him to sentiment, which was not as bad as he imagined. He was brought back to reality when he heard Greg moan again.

 

Gregory was having a baby, and he was having it now, and there was not a hope in this world Mycroft would have a reprieve from helping another man give birth. _Lovely._

 

Mycroft inhaled slowly as his own contraction overtook his thoughts, and then helped Greg with getting out of his clothes and into position. He did a quick check, and _thought_ the baby might crown in a few minutes. At least based upon the last two births he participated in, which after he was done, he was going to ask Sherlock how to delete this sort of information, because he did NOT need to remember this... ever. Well, perhaps not all of it- Gregory hot, sweaty and-. Bugger this sentiment thing. He had a deal with these men, he was going to finish it... even if it meant denying what he felt. Bugger!

 

He checked the progress of Greg's labour once more, and Mycroft thought it looked as if there would be an hour or more before anything happened. He hated the idea of not knowing. Why could a baby be so stubborn and NOT be born now? He felt a small bit of sadness for Gregory, but he would need to deal with that later.

 

Greg continued to huff and moan, and Mycroft went to the kitchen to get a cool cloth to dab at Greg's sweaty face. At one point he was sure that his Gregory would faint, but realized he was too strong to do that. As another contraction hit, both Mycroft and Greg moaned in unison. What was the old saying of sympathy? Mycroft honestly didn't think it was fair he would have a contraction at the same time. Greg looked up and grinned, as if he knew what Mycroft was thinking about.

 

“Ah! Mycroft, I have to push!” Greg yelped. “Can you be considerate enough to not have contractions right about now?” Mycroft glared at Greg. Greg smirked at him, but that quickly turned into a look of pain. “Myc I need... I need to push... ah! Oh! Dear mother fu---”

 

“My dear Gregory...” Mycroft interrupted “I, um, have to check to see if you are correct, I however don't doubt the veracity of your statement, but it is good to make certain” With that he checked and saw the baby's head crowning. _That was fast,_ Mycroft thought. He looked at the clock and realized it had been close to an hour. Mycroft leaned back and thought for a moment.

 

“WELL?! I’m gonna die here- oh god!- and you will sit there and do nothing? You ginger headed toad, you! Give me my pillow so I can throw it at you again! I'm gonna-” Greg began to bear down.

 

“That's right my darling- oh bugger that's a big head! You can keep pushing,” Mycroft told him. He was almost certain Gregory would kick him for the last comment.

 

“I AM PUSHING,” Greg screamed.

 

“Can you push harder? Wow! How big do you think this child is? Must be at least a stone based upon the size of its-- _ow! Ow!_ Why are you hitting me John?!” Mycroft whined.

 

“Because you git, you don't say things like that!” John huffed.

 

“Oh god! Get it out of me, please Mycroft, please, make it stop, please help me. I'll do anything, if you can make it stop. Please, please, please!” Greg begged. He kept pushing, and the baby's head finally emerged. Mycroft thought it was the most wonderful thing in the world.

 

“Keep pushing, you've almost done it.” Mycroft said. The baby was rather large, but was worried John or Gregory might hit him should he say anything. “Push.”

 

Greg grunted and pushed some more, and within a minute a baby girl was crying in Mycroft's hands. She was quite lovely as far as the “fairer sex” went, his heart melted at the sight of her. She looked like Gregory. He looked up to Greg, with a faint hope that this father might want her. _Please, let her be wanted by Gregory_ , Mycroft begged.  He held her a bit closer to his chest just in case.

 

“Give the baby to me please, I want to see my baby,” Greg asked Mycroft quietly.  Greg smiled at both of them, and held out his arms.

 

“Then, Gregory, may I present your daughter?” Mycroft looked at Greg and slowly handed him the baby. _How I wish I could hold you longer little one_. Mycroft looked over at his nephews, and grinned, both were fed and cleaned, and they did look like a fine pair of Holmes. He would be their father since Sherlock couldn’t be, an easy choice, possibly the easiest in a long while. However, back to the matter at hand.

 

“What do you wish to name her, Gregory?” He stopped when he heard Greg humming a tune to the baby. A tune he didn't recognize. Some sort of new pop group no doubt.

 

“I love you, I love you, I love you, that's all I want to say-” Greg sang to the baby. He looked up at Mycroft. “Michelle, of course. Lovely name for a baby, and a great song.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft looked at him, confused.

 

“I didn't plan on any particular middle names, so would you do the honour?” Greg said softly, as Michelle wrapped her finger around his. He smiled down at her.

 

“Hm, how does Linda Louise sound to you? Michelle Linda Louise. Hol... Lestrade?” Mycroft asked. _The Holmes must be added at a later date._ He grinned at Michelle who stared at him with wide eyes. She needed some brothers, and he knew of two.

 

Mycroft heard giggling from John and Greg and wondered why. What had he missed? John was nearly in tears from laughter, and huffing through his labour, which seemed to becoming to an end. Three down, one more to go- bugger this contraction thing- two more to go. Maybe, thought Mycroft, his luck would find him before either himself or John had their babies. He looked over to Sherlock, that man-child was still in his Mind Palace... or was in shock- Mycroft wasn't sure which one.

 

“Michelle is a Beatles song.” Greg explained. “Paul McCartney sang lead vocals to it. So it's rather cute that you added Linda Louise”

 

“It explains nothing as to why you would name her Michelle and then why you are laughing at me for Linda Louise. It is a Holmes family name I will have you know. Who are the Beatles?”

 

“Who are-- who are- did you just?! The BEATLES! Greatest rock band of all time? Mycroft Holmes doesn't know who they are? You are so much like your brother- _you deleted it didn't you_?” Greg stared at him in near shock. John just shook his head.

 

“Deleted what?” Mycroft looked confused.

 

“Never mind. I'll explain it later,” Greg said soothingly.

 

“Gregory, err Detective Inspector Lestrade. I congratulate you on the birth of your child.” Mycroft winced as he said this, but needs must- he didn't need to feel this… sentiment. “She is beautiful; you must be pleased. Also, I do apologize for my behaviour in the last while.  I am sorry”

 

“For what behaviour? Being human?” Greg questioned. “I think you're pretty good yourself. Don't lie Mycroft, I might be slow, but at least I don't lower the IQ of the whole street.” Beside them Sherlock snorted. Mycroft smiled. _Ice can melt in private_ he thought.

 

“Very well, Detec- Gregory, but I think I must check on a few people.” As Mycroft heard John moan. “John are you well?”

 

“No I am bloody not well. I am having a bloody baby MYCROFT!” John whined.   _Looks like John was having the baby now,_ Mycroft thought.

 

“Very well. Please remove your trousers and pants. It will be easier for me to check.” Mycroft sighed. He checked the phone and…no phone connection yet, it was nearly... too many hours for this. What a nightmare. Someone was getting fired when it got back to the office. And it was still whiteout conditions. Blasted weather.

 

With help from Sherlock, John was partly naked. Mycroft took a deep breath and then said, “Brother mine, please check on Doctor Watson, you seem perfectly capable of doing so.”

 

“Nope.” Sherlock wandered over to the couch and proceeded to fall headlong in the pillows.

 

“You lazy git! Help-- ow! Mercy! Mother of --.” John moaned again, and Sherlock looked as if he would leave for the bedroom.

 

“Brother mine do not skulk away from here,” Mycroft warned. Sherlock made a rude noise- so no help from him. _Fine, be that way you man-child. I can deliver another child. No problems. It's easy._ Mycroft thought as he glared at Sherlock.

 

“Doctor Watson, John, I am going to check you,” Mycroft said before he began to check. “It looks perfectly normal, the feet are about to appear.” Mycroft told John in an effort to show encouragement.

 

“Mycroft, babies don't come feet first. It's always head first,” John gasped in short breaths. He looked paler than either Sherlock or Greg had. This was, to quote John-- a bit not good.

 

“This is a problem.” Mycroft, for all his ability and intelligence had no clue what to do now. He checked his phone, it was still without power.

 

“Why really? Really? Why would the mighty Mycroft think so?” John huffed again, and sure enough with the next contraction the feet began to emerge. “Mycroft this is all your fault!”

 

“NOT MY FAULT! Now what are we going to do about this?” Mycroft looked at Greg and Sherlock.

 

John let out a scream that caused the rest of the room to jump. This baby was coming fast, and why didn't that Doctor Smith notice this on the ultrasounds? _It was all Dr. Smith's fault not his_ , Mycroft thought.

 ****  
  



	6. Chapter 5: All Together Now, PUSH!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Holmes never panics. Never, not even a little, okay maybe a little if everything seems to be going wrong. Cue a helping hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to my dear betas, who have encouraged me a lot, and have been wonderfully patient when real life has come calling. Hugs to you ladies. I am so amazed at your kind comments and kudos. Means so much to me!

John looked like he was going to die. Mycroft didn't blame him in the least and, for once in his life, he had no clue what to do in this situation. Blasted first aid training forgot to mention what to do with a feet first birth in a snowstorm with no cellular reception to be had. If he guessed correctly, he should be encouraging John not to panic. _Oh dear Lord, how was he going to do that?_

 

“John I need you to relax a moment,” Mycroft said, sounding as relaxed as he could fake it- and it didn't seem to be working. “I don't think you should try to push, now. Also, can you guide me through the process of birthing a child who is coming out the wrong way?”

 

“No, I will bloody well not relax you dumb- argh!- get this out of me!” John spread his legs wider; Mycroft averted his eyes from the sight. What sort of evil spirit lived in Baker Street that would require him to help deliver four children in one night? He was quickly brought back to reality when John grabbed his shoulders and shook him.  There was a look of panic in John's eyes.

 

“Now Mycroft! Pushing NOW!” John gave Mycroft no other warning and began to push- hard. Unfortunately nothing much happened. Mycroft sighed inwardly. Based upon his recent experience, it would take some time before the baby was born.

 

“Dr Watson- do I need to do anything? You're the expe--” Mycroft began, just before a soft object hit him in the back of the head. Why, how nice of Sherlock to throw a pillow at him. Man-child indeed,.. wait that was from the direction of Gregory. “What was that for?”

 

“Put it behind John's head!” Greg barked at him, sounding every bit the police officer he was. Mycroft followed his command. “You'll need to get into position and hold the baby's legs. Wrap them up so there's no inadvertent breathing before its head is out.”

 

“With what wrap, I don't have anything how can I-?!” Mycroft asked just before Sherlock's shirt was thrown his way. “Thanks.”

 

With wrap in hand, Mycroft quickly rolled the shirt around the feet and legs of the baby. He hoped it would be alright because he had little idea of what to do if there was anything wrong with the baby. And John was no help,because he was having problems giving birth. The nerve of him Mycroft groaned to himself.

 

“John, argh! I need you to focus. I need you to umm, push? I need you to do something to make this go faster. Why don't you breathe a bit more? I, oh my, think the baby is coming! ” Mycroft babbled to John.

 

“MYCROFT! Why the hell are you panicking? Oh fucking- oh god, oh,” John moaned, and pushed again. Another contraction quickly followed and the baby seemed to move... backwards. This isn't good, Mycroft thought as he felt another contraction hit him. He tried to breathe through it but found this was the strongest one yet. He could really use some help, maybe if he thought about it for a few minutes, it’s not like he deletes anything.

 

“Myc! Listen to me. Crap, he has a Mind Palace too.” Grumbled Greg “Holmes and their dumb Mind Palaces! Myc!” Greg was saying to him, when Mycroft finally began to listen to him. “Pay attention, you are not Sherlock!”

 

“What?! Oh my god what do you want now? I'm trying to help John have a baby and _it's not working all that well_.” Mycroft grumbled and then sniffed. “I am a minor government official not a doctor! I have men to do this- what are you looking at me for? Why me? Oh God this isn't fair- it hurts!” Yes, he was nearly in hysterics, but maybe if he took a few minutes to compose himself all would be well he thought. Except for the most uncomfortable contractions.

 

“Myc? MYCROFT HOLMES! Oh my ever loving god! I've had training with emergency births where there are problems. Do you want me to walk you through it or are you going to just sit and cry?” Greg yelled at him.

 

“No! Tell me what to do Gregory. It seems I am at a loss” Mycroft sniffed again. No, he was not going to cry. He looked at John who didn't seem to be paying any attention. Of course Doctor Watson, the only one of the four with medical training, would be having problems giving birth.

 

“PUSH! JOHN! PUSH!” Mycroft bellowed at John, as another contraction hit both men.

 

“I. AM. PUSHING. YOU. GIT!” John growled out. He pushed again and the baby slowly made its way out of John's body into Mycroft's waiting hands. Mycroft began to huff along with John as both their contractions seemed to synchronize. Bloody great timing.

 

“Okay, Mycroft, I want you to look at the legs. Are they straight? Is there any sort of trauma? If not, have John keep pushing. If there is anything wrong, well, we can get to that later.” Greg's voice came from behind.

 

“John's legs are bent, so I guess... oh, you mean the child's? Well, yes, they are straight. John, push again,” Mycroft told them. “John, push harder. John? Are you paying attention to the fact I am asking you to push?” John, it seemed, was pushing but his efforts were getting him nowhere. _That stubborn child._

 

For the next few minutes John pushed with all his might; with the baby emerging inch by inch with only the head needing to come out. Distantly, Mycroft could hear Greg telling him he needed to hold the baby. He was holding the baby, so it must mean something else. Mycroft realized Greg meant hold the baby so the head could come free.

 

He heard John cry out and then his own moan as a contraction hit him just as the baby's head came free. Mycroft held the newest arrival who made her presence known to the world with a loud cry, scaring little Michelle and causing his nephews to stir.

 

“John, it's a girl. My congratulations,” Mycroft whispered to John. John hadn't opened his eyes, but he gave a small, weak smile; this had been hard on him. Mycroft looked at the baby and felt her hand wrap against his finger. Now, here was another beauty.

 

“I'd like to hold her... please?” John said, as he opened his eyes. He gently picked her up, cradling her close, and began to softly cry. “Hello, there I- I- . God you're beautiful you know that? You are amazing and perfect and I love you to bits already.” He raised her to his lips and gave her tiny forehead a kiss. The baby opened her eyes and cooed at John. John grinned at her and gave her another kiss.

 

“Again, she is lovely John.” Mycroft grinned and then shifted. Another contraction hit him and he found it hard to breathe through it. Although it was a hard birth, both John and the baby looked no worse. At least so it seemed. He looked at John, and watched him hold his baby closer.

 

Mycroft made a mental note that there needed to be more security around the little ones now. What with four babies, and all those criminal elements Gregory, Sherlock, John and he dealt with on a regular basis, these little ones needed protection-- until they were at least 100.

 

“What is her name John?” Sherlock asked. He didn't seem all that interested, and Mycroft looked over his shoulder to see Greg glaring at Sherlock “I'm told this is a socially necessary thing to do. So let's get that over with. Name. Now. John.”

 

“Hmm, yes, you are lovely, and I think Eleanor will do just perfectly for you.” John gave little Eleanor another kiss and she sneezed in response. “Mycroft, if it's not too much trouble... if you will, a middle name for this lady?”

 

Mycroft thought for a moment, and then breathed through another contraction. He looked at the clock. Dear lord, how much longer? He wondered.

 

“Patricia Anne is a lovely name” Mycroft said. Yes, another family name. And... why were John and Gregory laughing at him? He glared at Greg.

 

“Again Myc- I still, I mean, are you sure you don't know who the Beatles are?” Greg was giggling. John smirked. Sherlock's eyebrows were rising above his hairline in confusion. This only made the other two laugh harder. It seemed the two Holmes boys had no clue what was happening.

 

“It. Is. MYCROFT!” Mycroft yelled through another contraction. His yelling set all the babies crying again. Mycroft wished for earplugs to appear right now harder than anything he had ever wished for in the past nine months. No, his dearest wish right now was to hurt Sherlock for putting him in this painful hell of a mess.

 

“Get off the bloody couch! Sherlock, so help me I will find someone to kill you if you don't.” Mycroft struggled to pull himself upright. “Believe me when I tell you they won't find your body! Get off the sodding couch!” Sherlock glared at him but did as he was told.

 

Mycroft could not think. He half crawled, half inched to the couch. Finally he felt some hands pulling him up and helping him lay down.

 

“Thank you” He mumbled.  He looked up and found Sherlock grinning at him, and Mycroft made a quick mental note to never, ever, thank anyone before he looked.

 

“You're welcome” Sherlock said. “Now, brother, let's have this baby. Won't hurt a bit. Except for the fact you have to do some legwork.” Sherlock smirked at Mycroft.

  
“One more word out of your mouth and I will punch you.” Mycroft growled as another contraction wracked his body. At least it would be over soon.


	7. I Can Do Legwork… When Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has his turn at the "birth thing" and he learns why everyone had the giggles about the baby names. There was just two problems, the more important one being who the heck were the Beatles anyways?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always my thanks to my betas. You'll have to forgive the delay, but thanks to my betas who kept after me. Also, thank you, thank you thank you for all the comments and kudos and just plain out making my day brighter. I couldn't have done it without you all. You've made me come back to writing, and finding out I can make people smile or laugh means the world to me! Hugs to all of you!
> 
> Next chapter is the epilogue, so hold on to your hats.

“Okay Mykie!” Sherlock grinned at his brother, “Shall we begin?” Sherlock looked gleeful; Mycroft just felt sick. Mycroft felt his insides move and he was nearly overcome with a desire to take his brother's head and smack it- hard. Except for the small problem of feeling like he was tied to one spot while the wave of a contraction came upon him again.  He wanted to die, or at least pass out.  It wouldn't be over soon, he'd be dying like this for all eternity. 

 

Vaguely, Mycroft could hear someone saying that another man wasn't ready yet, and they didn't have to check them for anything. Then a different voice was saying that a person had to check Mycroft. But each voice declined to help.  _Why wouldn't they help him? What was wrong?_  Mycroft wondered. He could also hear the sounds of a grown man moaning. It was annoying him and he wanted that man to stop- and he wanted the other men to check that other man. Oh, it was him.

 

Mycroft felt hands touch his legs, and then the same voice telling him, “Mycroft, I am going to check you like John tells me I should. Remove your hands from around my neck.” It was Sherlock. Perhaps he should loosen his grip- and he did so slowly.  As the contraction lessened he felt he could breath a bit more, only to have another hit him seconds later. _When was this going to end?  This was torture!_  Mycroft felt like crying but he didn't.

 

Unexpectedly, he felt a worn, callused set of hands wrapping around his. A wonderful voice was whispering in his ear, “It's okay, Mycroft; it's okay you can do this.” His dear Gregory was with him. But, he just had a baby, where was the baby? What about the other babies?  What happened to them?  Was he going to die?  Make the pain stop! 

 

When Greg told him they were fine, and he was fine, he realized he must have been saying this aloud and that he should focus on his breathing- deep and slow.  There was one problem about the whole breathing thing.

 

He couldn't move, he could hardly breathe- how was he supposed to take deep and slow breaths. _Why focus on something he bloody well couldn't do?!_  Then there was the pressure building inside him. Mycroft felt he was being ripped apart. He felt hot and cold, and then he wanted to move around, or at least get away from noise and pain. There were too many people around and he could hear someone moaning again. It took him a moment to realize it was him again, and then he felt someone's hands touching his legs. He wanted to kick at them, and he heard a grunt. He focused on the sound and saw Sherlock rubbing his chest.

 

Oops. Mycroft smirked at Sherlock for a moment, until another contraction hit him. This time he felt as if his insides were coming out. He felt was if there was a lot of painful pressure on a part of his body he never cared to have. He wanted to push at it, he wanted to scream, and as a contraction increased, he wanted to pass out from the intense pain of it all.

 

“It hurts! I- son of a-” Mycroft yelped as another contraction hit, this time feeling the need to push towards something. He wanted to push, he  _needed_  to push and he heard...

 

“Don't push Mycroft; we have to check you to see if you're progressing well, okay!” Greg kept telling him. Mycroft badly wanted to push, and besides, what use was it to wait? He vaguely heard yelling- it seemed he could not push for some reason, but not due to himself.  Greg was holding his hand, and John was trying to make a lump move back to Mycroft, the pillow of black seemed to be moving lower, except that pillows don't move unless they are attached to heads, and only one head had such a colour, and _Oh dear God have I lost the ability to think?_ Mycroft wanted to cry, except he could yell at someone instead.

 

“You child, get back here and check me!” Mycroft growled at Sherlock, who it seemed to have taken refuge behind John's chair. With every sign of reluctance, Sherlock stationed himself between Mycroft's legs and ventured a quick look. That man didn't bother with checking too well, Mycroft thought, but if he says I have to wait, I will have him murdered! Then Sherlock spoke the words Mycroft was waiting for.

 

“And, Myc…PUSH!” Sherlock told him. Mycroft pushed.

 

“Harder! Again!” Sherlock urged. Mycroft pushed, and he thought that the baby should be out by now. He leaned back taking a breath.

 

“Mycroft! PUSH! PUSH!” Sherlock yelled, and Greg heaved him up. He didn't want to push; where was the baby? God, it hurt. He could still feel the urge to push, but he wanted to stop to think, to breathe.

 

“Mycroft! Stay with us; you have to push!” Greg told him. “Sherlock, check your brother. Do your see a head? Anything?”

 

“Yes, Myc, the baby, it's almost here. Good lord, how disgusting is this?” Sherlock muttered. “I mean, a head…coming out, and it's…oh, this is horrifying!”

 

“You look at dead, mangled bodies and you turn green at  _this_?” John called out. Greg snorted, and Mycroft might have done the same except he felt both a burning and an incredible sensation to push harder.

 

“I need…I can't…” Mycroft called out.

 

“Yes, yes you can. Just do it now, only for a few more times. I can almost see the top of the head; you're doing it.” Sherlock told him. “EWWW! This is disgusting! Oh how gross is this? Eww!”

 

“Head in the fridge” John called out to Sherlock. “Toes, eyeballs, bombed flat. You deal with this like a man Sherlock!”

 

“Dead bodies and a riding crop! Serial murders and you act like it's Christmas” Greg yelled. “ _This_ grosses you out, Sherlock?”

 

The burning sensation ended and Mycroft pushed harder. He might have laughed at the running commentary but he was too exhausted. Sweat ran down his face; and all he wanted to see was the child-  _his child_. And with that thought he inhaled deeply and pushed as hard as he could. Within moments he felt as if all of his innards were coming out, but he kept on pushing. What seemed like a long time later, there was no more pain, no more urge to push.

 

He looked up and saw Sherlock holding a small baby. It was squirming in Sherlock's hands and beginning to make some sounds.

 

“Sherlock Holmes! Introduce the baby to his Daddy!” Greg motioned to a shocked Sherlock that he should give the baby to Mycroft. Mycroft stared at the baby. A wonderful baby. His son.

 

He fell in love with the baby instantly. Mycroft didn't think that was possible, not at all. This little boy had captured his heart. He grinned at the baby and held out his hands to Sherlock so that he could have his son.

 

“You are a handsome fellow.” Mycroft whispered to his son softly. “I most certainly hope you'll have more hair than me.” It looked as if the baby would have a lot of hair. He hoped it would stay.

 

“What's his name Mycroft?” Greg was peering over Mycroft's shoulder to have a better view of the newest arrival to 221b Baker Street. Michelle was sleeping in his arms and John was holding Eleanor and smiling sadly. Sherlock had wandered over to the twins, and was looking at them. Mycroft hoped he wasn't going to experiment on them.

 

“Julian James Paul” Mycroft said with a smile.

 

“Wait...what? WHAT?” Greg began to laugh. John was grinning and trying not to giggle, but failing at it.

 

“Yes, Gregory. Julian James Paul Holmes. Is there a problem with this? Also, unless Sherlock wants to name the two other boys, I have some names picked out. Why are you still laughing?” Mycroft raised his eyebrow in irritation.  This didn't appear to help matters much in the way of John and Greg who seemed to be trying to contain their laughter- at him.   _It must be the loss of blood or too much oxygen_ they are getting Mycroft decided.

 

“Never mind, I can't, you... their names, what are their names? Sherlock do you have a suggestion?” Greg asked.

 

“No.” Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off the babies. He seemed to believe they might bite him or something.

 

“Very well then, I planned on Maxwell John Winston and Desmond George Richard. Lovely names I feel, and family ones-John, Gregory?! What is the matter now?” Mycroft could not believe his ears. Two grown men in hysterics over his choice of names, how was he going to deal with this now?

 

“You- Mycroft- You... I can't!” Greg howled in laughter. Michelle was crying angrily at the loud noises and Julian was beginning to fuss. John was cuddling Eleanor close, but she looked as if she would howl at any moment. John seemed to be deep in thought when he looked at her.

 

“Hush the both of you! Acting this way, and scaring the children! I'm not your housekeeper!” Sherlock mimicked Mrs. Hudson so well that Greg and John stopped to look for the landlady.

 

“Explain yourselves;  _quietly_  if you please.” Mycroft demanded.

 

“Fine, right.” John said still grinning. “You have named every single one of these children after a Beatle, or a Beatle's wife. And not only that, their first names all happen to be...”

 

“Beatles' songs” Greg supplied. He was grinning as well. “Admit it. You know who the Beatles are.”

 

“I do.” Sherlock said.  Everyone in the room looked at him with varying degrees of disbelieve on their faces. “They were a 1960s rock band from Britain. And they were known as-” Sherlock looked down at his hand, where he seemed to be holding something, and was about to continue on when-

 

“Stop looking at your phone you git.” John countered. Mycroft sighed.  _Who were the Beatles anyways? Besides the 1960s, rock band? Couldn't possibly be still well known could they?_  He made a mental note to ask Anthea when she arrived. He also looked around for his phone. At that moment, Julian made himself known.

 

He peed on Mycroft.  The baby hiccuped and looked at him with innocent wide eyes, Mycroft tried to not look horrified-- a baby shouldn't do that.  Greg chuckled, and quickly explained that babies do this all the time, that's why their are in nappies.

 

Mycroft sighed, and then began to laugh. Not knowing that a baby would not have any control over bodily functions was a change and he should have anticipated something like this happening. He looked over at his brother.

 

“Go and get me a towel, and some cloths; we need to begin the process of making sure that all the babies are healthy,” Mycroft told his brother. Sherlock didn't move. “Now, Sherlock, or so help me I will have you arrested.”

 

“Fine, oh mighty British Government.” Sherlock poked at Maxwell. Maxwell let out an indignant squeak and Sherlock seemed to be interested in reaction times of a baby. He seemed to be deciding what to do, then he got up and wandered out of the room. Mycroft hoped he would remember to come back. Fortunately, Maxwell and Desmond had been fed, and Michelle and Eleanor, and yes, Julian would need a bottle soon.

 

Sherlock came back and dropped the towel on top of Mycroft. Had he not had years of man-child and government training behind him, Mycroft was sure he would have jumped the moment the towel fell on his head and dropped to his lap. Julian however, had no such training and screamed until he was red in the face.  _Just perfect_ Mycroft thought.

 

“Brother mine, do be careful, and do not poke at the babies. They do not like that.” Mycroft warned, and Sherlock began to look as if he would go and sulk.  _Hopefully not near this couch,_ thought Mycroft.

 

“But I want to do some experiments on them, it will help me to learn about-” Sherlock began to explain.

 

“NO!” came three other voices, and crying from the babies. _It seems we do make them cry too much, and this whole experiment thing will never happen, even if I have to hurt that man- and it won't be my fault!_  Mycroft thought.

 

Mycroft decided it was high time for Julian to be fed, it must be time for him to move, and he tried to, but it began to hurt to high heaven. Looking over, he noticed everyone else was moving carefully. Labour was not a thing to be viewed as easy anymore. How women got through this he didn't understand—no, that was what drugs were for. With some effort he stood up and made his way to the kitchen to get a bottle.

 

Looking at the clock he was amazed it was now almost four hours since his labour had begun in earnest. He picked up the baby bottle and walked over to his phone. Yes, finally there was reception. He had over 20 voicemails and countless texts to go through. He sent one to Anthea and 30 seconds later the reply came to him saying she was on her way. He checked on Maxwell and Desmond, both of whom seemed to be sleeping, except they were moving,still he wasn't going to let Sherlock near them for experiment purposes. He looked at Greg and sweet Michelle- the baby was sleeping peacefully in her father's arms. John and Eleanor were resting in John's chair. John seemed to have been crying.

 

Impossible, John might have cried in his labour, but not now, he had a wonderful daughter who was healthy... or was there something he was missing? Mycroft sat down carefully and placed the bottle to Julian's mouth. He wondered if he should ask how to feed him, but didn't want to feel stupid in front of his brother. Julian, he mused, was smart; he drank the bottle perfectly, not caring at all about how much he took.

 

After having been fed, Julian drifted to sleep. Mycroft turned back to John. John seemed to be lost in thought while looking at Eleanor. He was whispering something to her. It sounded like “I'm sorry” over and over.

 

Mycroft cleared his throat. John looked up.

 

“John is there anything wrong with Eleanor? Is she okay?” Mycroft began “Did I do anything wrong while she was being born?”

 

“No, no, nothing like that, Mycroft. I was just thinking, you know you said you gave us the option of giving up our babies? I...” John began; he craddled Eleanor closer to him. “I can't take care of her. Who would want me as a father?  I live for danger, for crying out loud! I live with a git for a flatmate and I can't do this to her.” John looked down at his daughter. Mycroft thought for a moment.

 

“I will accept your offer, on one condition- that you choose who you would like to have her raised by...” Mycroft took a deep breath. He looked at Gregory, his wonderful loyal Gregory. This could change everything.

 

“Either your sister or me.” Mycroft looked into John's eyes. John nodded.

 

“Mycroft, I think it would be best if I have a few moments. Do you think you can give me that?” John asked.

 

“Of course, John,” Mycroft said. He stood up and motioned to Greg to head out of the room.

Once out in the kitchen, Greg and Sherlock began to whisper to him about the madness he was doing. Yes, he was the British Government and he had power, but was he mad? That would be four children. Besides, he didn't do such a great job as an older brother. He was insane. What would he tell Mummy? Was he out of his mind? The whispering went on until...

 

“Mycroft” John called to him “I've made my choice”

 

 

 


	8. 4 Years and 5 Children Later: Are We Blaming Sherlock For This One?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end... or the beginning, or how Max is too much like Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to the saint of a beta, 221Btls, whom I insist you go and read her work. She is a saint. I'm so happy to have people come and read this, and I'm so sorry it's taken so long to get this last chapter in. You've made my day with all the comments, bookmarks, Kudos and just being you. Hugs and thanks... and see you when I get the next one up.

It was eight a.m. and Mycroft looked over at the sleeping man beside him. He grinned in delight. To the world, they had been together for a little over a year, only having acknowledged their relationship after Sherlock _mentioned it_ at a Scotland Yard function.

As Mycroft’s Gregory put it, “That prat was waiting for the wrong moment. I hope John beats him with that riding crop of his.” Mycroft didn't ask why Greg might have made the statement- John could easily beat Sherlock with his bare hands if he wanted to - he had bad days. And while Sherlock never seemed to tire of the “are they or aren't they” game he played with everyone in regards to John's “not gay” stance, John didn't even seem to bother anymore telling people he's “not gay!”

 

Based on the latest reports on the life of one Dr. John Watson, he was still an incorrigible flirt and, having been married once too many times (four to be exact), would not do so again. His first wife was a Martha or Mary, the second and third Mycroft had “forgotten” their names and the fourth, well it was likely a woman; he had heard John say her name was “Sherly.” Greg however, swore that John was making up the last one up, because what sort of a woman would go by the name of Sherly? John had for his part moved back to Baker St after the end of his fourth marriage, or was it his third, even Mycroft couldn't figure that out. This event brought on the “Great Pub Crawl of John and Greg”, as Sherlock and Mycroft termed it, when the two men went out for a pint and talked at length about relationships and sexuality and … _men_.

 

For whatever reason, at some point that evening, John had sworn to Greg the only time he would ever consider officially getting together with the great git was if John ever got pregnant again. Since this was highly unlikely, _thank-you-very-much_ , John wasn't going to date anyone for the moment, he had “other commitments.” John also pointed out that he did enjoy the time with Eleanor and Michelle a lot; he claimed it gave him a break from chasing the man-child around the house.

 

Ah, yes, _all_ the little ones were doing well. Mycroft and the other men had informed the mothers –Anthea, Molly, Irene, and Sara- of the babies’ arrivals, letting them know they would not need to worry about a thing for their “donations”; Mycroft had it all under control. The trust fund he so carefully managed over the years had come in handy. He grinned again as he heard the soft patter of feet- it looked like the five children were up. He pleaded to whatever deity there was that Maxwell hadn't got into anything yet, that the worst that would happen would be a bit of clean up. If Gregory and he were lucky, any accidental experiment would happen at Baker Street instead of at their house.

 

Yes, today was the day they were all off to see Uncle Sherlock again. Hopefully there wouldn't be anything (what do you mean by ‘anything’? Any dangerous chemicals etc, the children could get into?) that could destroy the flat. This time. Mycroft wasn't sure who was worse, Maxwell or Sherlock, when it came to exploding experiments.

 

“GOOD MORNING FATHER!!!” Julian never said anything quietly. Julian grinned and crawled up on to the queen sized bed, followed by his shadow, Desmond. Eleanor and Michelle were close behind them, and Maxwell was already dressed... which could only mean one thing. Uncle Sherlock and Baker Street in an hour. Beside him, heard his beloved sigh. It never hurt to have back-up when it came to Maxwell and Sherlock Holmes.

 

An hour later everyone was packed and ready to go. John had agreed to join them at Baker Street after he finished his shopping, as apparently the “great git” had drunk all the milk, tea and anything else liquid-based in the flat, but he was still out. Greg commented something along the lines of another lover's spat between the two men, and Mycroft wished there might be a happy announcement in the near future so he could tease Sherlock about it. Mycroft would never admit to delighting in the fact that one day he could tease Sherlock for “caring.”

 

When they got to 221b, Maxwell made a beeline for some of Sherlock's older test tubes. Desmond, Julian, and Michelle sat on the couch reading, and Eleanor went in search of Mrs. Hudson and her “famous” biscuits. Mycroft hoped she made extra, he did so enjoy them. They had seen John heading out of Tesco, so they knew he'd be home soon.

 

“Watch the experiment, Max, dear!” John called out to the near-mirror image of his uncle as he dropped off shopping bags on the counter. “Please don't make it explode. Ok?”

 

“Yes, no problem Uncle John!” Max called back. “Uncle Sherly, can you help me with these old test tubes. They've got some sort of mixture in them— I don't know what it is. I need to find my protective gear, though!” Maxwell had lined up four old test tubes with some green mold in them. Mycroft hoped it wasn't terribly toxic.

 

“Sherlock! Listen to your nephew; go clean out the mold, or whatever it is...” Greg started towards the kitchen with Sherlock at his side.

 

“I don't recall there being any old test tubes around here for a while. I believe John made me clean out the flat twice after we had given...” Sherlock began, but stopped when he realized what he was about to say. After the births, the men had agreed that for now the children didn't need to know the exact circumstances of their births. It didn't matter much to the men, they loved the children, but they worried about the entire “men can't have children. Yes we did.” conversation which needed to happen at some point. Several months after their births, and this discussion Sherlock seemed to have come around— Max developed a shared interest in chemicals and experiments when he was three. The other four children didn't capture his interest as much, but he tolerated them, and stated they weren't idiots like everyone at Scotland Yard. In Mycroft's eyes this was an improvement over his normal behavior.

 

John coughed, looking hard at the tubes. Then he looked to where they had come from. His eyes widened. In a quiet voice, he said, “Hey, Jules, Belle, and Des, can you go with Eleanor down to Mrs. Hudson? Max?? Max! You, too, please. Have some time with her, she misses you...”

 

Mycroft stared at the tubes, as well, and let out an undignified squeak of fear, asking, “John? Why are you asking my children to leave? What is wrong?”

 

“The tubes, Mycroft... the tubes,” John whispered.

 

“Did Max do anything with them... Why are they beginning to smoke? Sherlock what are these things- wait aren't those the....?” Greg started to ask.

 

Mycroft stared and looked at the tubes again; his breath hitched. For a moment he remembered that night... about 4 and a half years ago. He started to walk (Greg would later say he ran) towards his Gregory, in hopes he could protect him. Sherlock finally looked at the tubes and, with fear in his eyes, hurried towards them.

 

“Look out every…” he began.

 

BOOM!

 

For a minute, no one said a word. They all glared at Sherlock. He grinned at them.

 

“Brother mine, those tubes…By chance are they the ones that contain the chemicals which may, or may not, be the reason I have five children?” Mycroft said slowly. “Why did you not clean them?” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths; it usually worked to relax him with Max, who could be as insufferable as his uncle. Not so with Sherlock. _That blasted man-child._

 

“Possibly. I had planned to look at them at some point, so, waiting for the right time I stored them in a small cooling unit I borrowed from Molly. I don't understand how Maxwell may have got into it. It's really a shame; I don't think anything is left! OWW!” Sherlock yelped.

 

John had been glaring at him the whole time and had leaped at Sherlock with a scream, grabbing the top of Sherlock's head. The wild arms of the consulting detective flew everywhere trying to protect himself. One of said arms hit the edge of the table. The last unbroken test tube went flying towards Mycroft and hit him squarely in the middle of his forehead.

 

“Nice aim....” Greg giggled.

 

“Not funny.” Mycroft grumbled, the remains of the liquid pouring down his face. He sighed. “I suggest, Dr. Watson, we clean this mess up. All of it. Before the children come back.”

 

With that said, everyone silently worked to clean up. They had it spotless in twenty minutes. It was a good thing, too, because Mrs. Hudson needed some help with the children; Maxwell had tried to steal some of Eleanor's cookie and she had decided that sitting on his head was also a good idea. John and Greg were quick to volunteer their services. Mycroft figured the children were very much like their fathers. He almost wished that he could have one more child, although he didn't want to be the one who was pregnant.

 

**10 Weeks Later:**

 

“I'll kill him with my bare hands. I will. So help me I will kill that git.” John growled.

 

“It's all your fault, Mycroft,” Sherlock yelled at Mycroft, ignoring John.

 

“How is this MY FAULT?” Mycroft whined back.

 

“Okay gentlemen... its testing time. Let's find out,” Greg called out. He had used his charms on Anthea and Molly and had found some pregnancy tests and an ultrasound machine for the day. The rest of the men swallowed hard and moved toward Greg. “Everyone take one of these,” he said, handing each a test, “and let’s get this over with.” The grumbles from the other men could be heard until Greg walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

 

“Still your fault.” Sherlock was hissing at Mycroft when Greg came back. It seemed that the argument never actually stopped.

 

“Shut up! The both of you!” John came close to using his Captain Watson voice.

 

“Mycroft!” Greg pointed at his lover. “Bathroom. Now.” Mycroft went to where he was told, and then after he came back to the living room, Sherlock and John made their way into the bathroom, as well.

 

After 30 minutes, in which they only needed to wait for three for the test results, John went inside the bathroom. He walked out seconds later, and then walked back in.

 

“Gentlemen.... we are once again... I can't say it. We are... we are Goingtohaveababy.” And with that John sat down hard on the floor by the bathroom door. He exhaled sharply, and then pointed at the couch and Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock, then Greg, then me and then Mycroft. Ultrasound. Now.” This time John _was_ using his captain's voice. _This is bad,_ thought Mycroft. Twenty minutes later it was revealed that John and Greg were going to have another baby. Sherlock as well. Mycroft would be the proud father of twins. By this time they were all glaring at Sherlock who had taken over the couch and was glaring right back at Mycroft.

 

“I blame Mycroft.” Sherlock said.

 

“Who left the test tubes where my son could find it? Who left them to be found?” Greg growled.

 

“I said clean up the bloody mess and no more test tubes Sherlock. Which part did you miss?” John yelled.

 

“This shows why I am the smart one! Don't blame me....” Mycroft glared at Sherlock.

 

“It's Maxwell's fault for putting them out…” Sherlock began.

 

“No... it’s all your fault, Sherlock!” The other three men yelled, causing Sherlock to jump.

 

Mycroft sat down in Sherlock's chair and looked at his belly. He sighed. Then he looked at Greg and John. He gave them his best smile, and said, “Gentlemen, I have a plan for the next seven months. I am the smart one here, and it will be okay.” Mycroft didn't like the look on the face of anyone in the small flat at the moment. This was going to be a long seven months.

 

 

  
  


 


End file.
